Roses in Winter
by wienerpigs
Summary: Were there such a thing as warmblooded murderers? Tifa wonders, as Reno turns up on a warm summer evening and finds that however she tries, she can't fight the moonlight. Sentimentalists rejoice: this one's for you.


**Roses in Winter**

You still remember, don't you,  
that gray evening not so long ago–  
though I know not why you called a summer night gray.  
(Perhaps _he_ was on your mind again? Darling,  
drop him like the leaves in autumn, if he reminds you of winter.)  
But there you stood that night, black from head to heel,  
staring up at the huge pale moon riding high, riding white.  
Perhaps you shivered, though the fireflies danced and  
bullfrogs sang and the radio poured out songs of love, not loss.  
Summer love is never loss. Pretty girl,  
you should have gone dancing tonight.

But then he came, roaring down the road and firing up the  
still evening in a blaze of dashing hooligan-glory.  
(Dearie, you always had a secret thing for danger.)  
He dismounted with slow ease, sending new wrinkles  
through his dark ironed suit, meticulously rumpled.  
He shook out a mane of wild spikes, an unabashed  
deluge of dark crimson (_his_ was gold, fairy gold.)  
And he strode up to you and smiled at you  
without so much of a by-your-leave.

Perhaps that was what charmed you, though  
his arms cradled roses as red as his hair and your face.  
But you started, glanced around for another princess,  
and your eyes widened after pinching yourself.  
His narrowed, slightly–_Is this how Strife treats his girl?_–  
and for all his many pick-up lines, he found nothing  
fitting for a graceful doe of a woman poised to flee.  
And all his cavalier charm found nothing more to say than,  
_Long time no see. _

That shattered the ice on that summer night, somehow.  
You laughed (a surprisingly well-oiled sound) and welcomed him in,  
though he held the uneasy grace of a cat in foreign territory.  
Your voice was too high and cracked from disuse, but you  
knew the fine art of aimless chatter–_I'm fine, thank you. _  
_Hang up your jacket over there, yes. Long ride?_  
His boots tracked in mud and he knocked over a vase:  
there was an immediate scramble, and your hands touched  
briefly as goldenrod and heart's ease lay scattered on the floor - _Sorry._  
You blushed, and for once he pretended not to see.

Were all this written on a script, I would have fallen asleep.  
Lonely heart, you were shy and awkward, all save your pleading eyes.  
But your voices, flowing wine and lazy drawl were longing,  
hesitation, and fear entwined in a bittersweet symphony–  
_I can't remember the last time I had company over._  
_Pleasant surprise, eh? Beats making small talk to beer bottles. _  
You wept (it was the onions, I know) after you cut your finger on the blade.  
And he, though his head and his hands were once drenched in blood,  
he took up the offended appendage and kissed it.

Nothing more. A friend's touch, a fellow sufferer's blessing,  
but you with your poor neglected heart threatened to burst.  
–_Please don't do this to me– their eyes, so alike– _  
(But had _he_ ever looked at you like that? No, I didn't think so.)  
Your blood beat frantically like a hummingbird's wings,  
but your long, long hair hid your face as you resumed chopping.  
He never knew tact, but immediately dropped his gaze–  
_How's life on the road these days?_  
_Crap, as usual. D'you think you need a band-aid?_  
And though the onions stung, you did not weep.

Dinner was served on the porch, with the fireflies your only lighting.  
(Save the merry outbursts that escaped from your lips like  
firecrackers on two–no, three occasions.) The night was warm,  
heady-calm, and darkness blurred reality. The crickets played  
their evening music and you felt his eyes–he smirked, and you glared.  
His cigarette lay forgotten, gathering ash–_It keeps the bugs away. _  
He tried to eat with his hands and you slapped them–_Table manners!_  
He feigned astonishment–_A slap for a kiss?_–and you laughed a fourth time.  
_Score._ And after that, you both stopped counting.

There were too many stars - only a handful, for the pragmatist,  
but you never saw any beneath steel plates.  
And he was there, his eyes glowing like sea-crystals–  
were there such a thing as warm-blooded murderers?  
His voice, softened and deepened by claret,  
told you tales conjured up by moonlight and roses.  
_Do you believe in fate? Destiny–that type of thing?_  
_Dangerous question, Lockhart, when coupled with wine._  
But you, you in your funeral black and uncurled eyelashes,  
sitting on your fighter's gloves, could not help falling.

The fireflies were the only witness as his lips met yours.

Slow, slow goodbye. Soft, gentle utters and replies,  
though the onions came back to haunt your eyes (_I'm sorry, it's just–) _  
and he, with his mortal fear of falling, didn't seem to mind (–_I know.)_  
The stars wheeled for you, the fireflies flamed;  
the bullfrogs were deafening, but the night was lost on you.  
You occupied a breathless bubble–  
don't stir for fear the dream ends–all dreams end–  
yet the world was still intact when you reopened your eyes.  
And so was he, smiling at you. _Not smirking, thank goodness._  
He laughed–_That'll do, Tifa. _He found you a very satisfactory princess,  
though fighter's gloves stuck disagreeably out of your fashionable black.

_Git._

He left the same way he came, blazing off into the night  
in a cloud of exhaust and hope triumphant (and kiss-bruised lips.)  
_I'm not in a skull-cracking mood, so don't go running off with some guy. _  
And you, you stood stroking petals blood-red as his hair,  
deep and soft as his mouth and his voice, both caressing yours.  
_I've got your jacket as safe-keeping. Ride this way again soon._  
Your heart escaped into a fairyland of dreams and wonder.  
You haven't played the princess since Daddy left–_he smiles, yes?_  
A hand suddenly jerked, a thorn pricked, and as you bent over to  
pick up a fallen leaf, you caught a glimpse of the mud he'd tracked in.  
And you didn't know whether to laugh or to cry, to scream or to run after him.

So you waited.

And the moon rose and vanished, and rose again,  
but you saw nary a flash of red; a knowing smirk.  
_He must've been held up. Why didn't I ask for his number?_  
And you wondered if he'd turned into a white rider  
as the petals dropped, one by one by one–  
_I'm sick of waiting for him to show up. Summer's ending._  
The mascara clumped on your coated lashes,  
trailing darkly down your cheeks as the last rose faded.  
_You've been played for a fool, Lockhart. Will I never learn?_

You wander through autumn now, leaves falling  
vivid scarlet and spangled gold against your dark hair–  
_Winter's coming. Good. _  
A slightly raised scar runs across your left index finger;  
you are unconscious that you lay it across your lips  
as you sleep at night, almost as though shushing yourself.  
_No such thing as happy endings, Tifa. Let go._  
Your dreams are in black and white, and he is always there,  
though you do not see him. You thrash, and wake up numb.  
(No, my brave girl, leave your wrists as they are.)

Darling - listen, the moon is constant, in her own wild way.  
Faithful she returns, after a period of wandering solitaire  
through frozen fields of stars and breathless air,  
stumbling through her night that for us is day:  
_Long weariness. Have I ever known anything else?_  
And you, you with your clenched fists and your dry eyes,  
you who long only for winter and the deep dark woods–  
you start as you hear a long-listened-for screech of tires on tarmac.  
_Long time no see, Tifa. Do you still remember me?_  
Run to him, my girl. Forget regret–he is waiting for you,  
with roses for your hair.

_Yeah, I remember you._

* * *

A/N: Spent a major amount of time editing this - it spun from a mental image of a summer night's encounter, with roses and wine (yeah, I'm a sentimentalist - ugh.) I have no clue who the speaker in this poem is - some kind of guardian spirit, I think, though not Aeris. 

Leave me a word or two if you read this, alright? I'm still not sure if this whole 'narrative' style works. I'd love to hear what you think.

Did anyone catch the clever reference to AC? Points if you did. And the phrase right before, stolen from Rent - I saw the movie this week, and totally bawled.


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